Immortal
by accio-feels
Summary: The Holmes's are immortal and have lived through all of humans existence. Mycroft and Sherlock bicker about historical malfunctions. A little insight to the life of an immortal Holmes. Rated T because the rating scale scares me.


The Holmes's had a secret. For all intents and purposes, the Holmes family were immortal.

The worst thing in the world, in the opinion of Sherlock Holmes, was how easily replaced people like John Watson and Molly Hooper are. In his entire life, Sherlock had encountered numerous other doctors who were just as competent, if not more, than John Watson. He had also met a large amount of woman like Molly Hooper or Irene Adler who adored him and fell at his feet. This didn't mean that he didn't appreciate the John Watson's, the Gavin Lestrade's, and the Mrs Hudson's. In fact, he cherished them each time he had them.

Caring was not an advantage because Sherlock would go to each of their funerals and try to reminisce about them without having their memories intertwined with the others like them. He began to forget each person he encountered. They had their rooms but once they died, their room was transferred to the general room. John Watson lived at the door marked 221B but as soon as he died, he'd be transferred to the room marked Crime Companion. Sometimes they were Jack the Ripper, other times, consulting detectives. For someone like Sherlock Holmes, a mind palace was crucial.

For Sherlock, sometimes looking at John was a hard time. He'd think about the inevitable, going to John's funeral and watching as his family pay their respects. But John was like every other companion Sherlock's had: forgotten in less than 100 years. By the 22th century, no-one would know of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. They won't be important. Only a few years after Molly Hooper dies, no-one will remember her. Her co-workers will forget and she doesn't have any surviving relatives to mourn her. Her funeral was not going to be fun. It was going to be a small, quiet occasion with few people attending. Mrs Hudson would have a large one. She had many friends at Bingo and such. Lestrade would have the entire police force there, a very solemn occasion indeed. John would be the same. He had Mary in his life now and the baby on the way. There was no way the army wouldn't do a thing for him. Sherlock would squeeze in at the back and be forgotten.

Sure, John had suffered through the two years that Sherlock was dead but, in the opinion of the detective, John should have sucked it up because that's what Sherlock had been doing his entire life.

Mycroft Holmes, on the other hand, lived by the rule 'caring is not an advantage' because he had his heart broken once or twice or three hundred times in the past. He didn't trust, either. If someone was to find out that the Holmes's never died, there would be a huge problem.

His parents were rather relaxed when it came down to it. They told him to have fun, enjoy this century, whatever other useless nonsense they had thrown on him at the beginning of every hundred years. But Mycroft was determined to lead a very private, silent life. If they didn't want to change their names every time one of them 'died' or they moved countries, it was best that Mycroft kept quiet. No photographs, no records. He could delete himself from the grid in less time than you can say 'Quidditch'. Mr and Mrs Holmes didn't mind what their children did as long they were respectful to each other and to them. After the 5th century, they were fine to let the boys do as they pleased. There was no way they wanted to cause another chaotic scene. Neither wanted a repeat of 450 BC.

With technology updating every day, Mycroft found it difficult to keep away from technology. He could still remember the middle ages and burning witches, him watching with his cold, calculating eyes, only steps away from the place an innocent woman would burn and here he was in the 21st century, ruling England from behind closed doors.

While Mycroft found solace in his secretive, private world, Sherlock was always one to make scenes. Mycroft remembered that blasted Jack the Ripper nonsense. Sherlock was always a childish man. One century, he's the angel, the other, he's a demon. Mycroft worried that Sherlock would turn around and do something dreadful that would tarnish the name of Holmes for century's to come. Mycroft changed his name once, he didn't want to do it again.

Mycroft stopped making friends after attending twelve funerals. He was done with those and he was going to sit the rest out. He didn't want to be involved in it at all. Nonetheless, he went to the funerals with Sherlock. His brother did get emotionally attached and found some funerals harder than others.

Of all the things to call each other, the only thing Sherlock and Mycroft could agree on was that Mycroft was an Ice King and he had no heart. For thousands of years of seeing everyone die around oneself, there was little reason for him to not isolate himself. It was the closest thing he could come to death.

If there was anything Mycroft craved, it was the sweet embrace of death. No-one, and I mean no-one, could ever distract him from leading his secretive, luxurious life. No-one could make Mycroft crave anything other than death. Except, maybe, one person; but they're another story for another day.

As Moriarty's face popped up all over London, Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes wondered what they had done in their many years of life to earn them the misfortune of dealing with Jim Moriarty.

"I think it was when you stabbed Caesar," Sherlock muttered as the brothers entered Mycroft's office.

"Now, now, Sherlock," Mycroft scowled as he closed the door behind his brother. "Caesar had it coming. You, on the other hand, stated the French revolution. If you hadn't paraphrased Marie Antoinette and told the French people that she said they should eat cake, there wouldn't have been a problem."

"How rich coming from the man who single handed took down the Incan Empire. I recall you bought smallpox over as well as assisting the Spanish in the early stages of capturing and destroying the civilization. But, that may be a fault in my memory," Sherlock stated before sinking into a chair in front of Mycroft's desk.

"That may be the case; however, I remember you started the Boston Tea Party. Think of all that poor tea, Sherlock. And then I had to start Australia because we had nowhere for the convicts. For Christ sake, Sherlock, that place is a death trap."

"Van Diemen's Land was alright though. Remember dad knew that bloke who turned cannibal in an attempt to escape?"

"Don't remind me." Mycroft sank into his chair and began to sink into his mind palace.

"I think it was dad's fault, to be honest."

"In what way did our father cause Moriarty's return?"

"He lets mummy watch those terrible period dramas. She lived through that, she can tell you everything wrong with it, yet they sit down and watch it as though it's new to them. For Christ sake, this is the same woman who told us not to kill Nero."

"We're the same people who followed what she said, rather blindly."

"And here we are, bickering about our historical failures when there are more to come, I assume."

"Yes. Now, can we please work on overthrowing Moriarty? I already have people looking into the location of the broadcasting of his face. That's been going on for several hours. We've had some trouble."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "Of course. It's the British Government, after all, the one that I trust near least. Mainly because they let you be part of it."

"This is serious, Sherlock."

"Oh, I'm serious. Almost as serious as the Black Plague. Remember that? I believe you were a carrier."

"For God's sake, Sherlock! Shut up or I'll bring mummy in!" Mycroft slammed his hands on the table, his face turning a ghastly shade of red.

"Right." Sherlock shut his mouth, knowing that if their mother walked into the office to find them bickering about who started what historical malfunction, there'd be a serious problem.

"Now, to the plan…"


End file.
